The Game of Deductions
by NotWhatSherl
Summary: Harper Nikolsen is a struggling actor. When she meet Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, her life makes a change for the better. Maybe future Johnlock. T because of mentions of drug abuse, mild swearing, and bullying. Starts at ASIP. First in the Deductions of Nikolsen Chronicles.
1. The Meeting

**My first Sherlock story, and, Surprise Surprise, it's an OC one. So I don't own BBC Sherlock. If I did, Johnlock, Mystrade, and Mormor would be canon. Wonder what would happen if I said I DID own it.**

* * *

I gazed into the swift morning fog of London as I got a piece of my short, brown hair out of my eyes. I'm not talking about short as in, it reaches my shoulders and can be put into a ponytail. I'm talking short, as in, I get confused for a man by some people if they are at a distance or behind me. You know, I should definitely tell you what I look for, for the sort of mental picture so you imagine this story. I get really annoyed when i'm reading books or fanfiction and it turns out, theres no description. Usually results in me picturing the characters as me, or some really huge exaggeration of what little description there is. I highly doubt a lot of book characters have short , brown hair, glasses, really pale skin, and just ugliness in general.

Just a little background on me, I am an actor, or 'Struggling Actor' as my mum would so generously put it. Always said my potential was wasted, considering how I have a fairly high IQ. Can do this cool thing too, where I can basically OBSERVE YOU (not stalk, as childhood bullies would say) and tell you a lot about you. This helps me in acting, because I can tell what sort of profession would be shown through how someone is dressed, so I can make the audience notice these things subconsciously. But the reason I love it, is they actually PAY you to lie to people. I grew up in Cardiff, with my Mum, Dad, one younger brother (That I could do without) and a few amount of dogs. Never at the same time of course. Be about two years before we get a new one.

But you're not here to read about my life in the past. Nah, you're here the read about what I've done with the fantastic Sherlock Holmes. Personally, I believe I deserve most of the fame, but what are you gonna do?

So I think the best place to start would be at the first case, one John dubbed as 'A Study in Pink' on his blog. Speaking of John, I should start when I met him, no boring exposition, we already got done with it in those first few paragraphs. Picture a nice sunny day (a rarity here, really), and a nice park. Me, wearing an old t-shirt with sweatpants and a bag with a script and a card I just received from my mum poking out from the top, and and an old friend, Mike Stamford, having a chat, when I see Mike get up and going to a man, military because of his posture, with a partly psychosomatic limp, seems to have forgotten about it when he stopped to talk to Mike. I tuned out most of their conversation when Mike said, "This is my friend, Harper Nickolsen, Haprer, this is my friend from Bart's, Dr. John Watson" Ah, Army _Doctor._

"Nice to meet you John" I said, shaking his hand. I noticed that he had a tan line, so definitely military.

We talked for while after that, getting coffee.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked.

"I can't afford London on an Army pension" John replied.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." he trailed off. We all look in separate directions with an awkward silence. I look at him clenching his hand, trying to stop the tremor that had just started.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Probably a brother, maybe a sister, but most likely a brother.

"Yeah, like _that's_ gonna happen!" Not on good terms then either.

"I dunno – get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on – who'd want _me_ for a flatmate?"

"Ha!" I laughed, "I am definitely more of a rubbish flatmate than you, just ask my old flatmates, who would definitely jump at the chance to rant about me" while Mike chuckled.

"What?" John asked, but, if I was stupid enough to gamble, I bet it was that someone had said the same thing early to him.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." I was right! As usual of course.

"Who was the first?" we asked at the same time.

* * *

On the way to St. Bart's I asked John a question that had been bothering me since I met him, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" he asked.

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked, a tiny bit of irritation creeping into my voice, I hate repeating things.

"Um... Afghanistan. How did you...?"

I ignored his question. I only just met him, I definitely didn't want to scare him off, or get a punch in the nose. Mike just shot him a look that says, 'Yeah, she always does that'

Once we got to St. Bart's we walked into a room where a man, with very sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and curly black or really, really, dark brown hair. If I wanted to describe him in one word, it would be _hot. _Now I'm not saying I want to date him, still don't in fact, but I am not blind to what's right in front of me. He was using a pipette to squeeze some liquid onto a petri dish. _Most likely doesn't work here, due to lack of lab coat, but is probably let in because he is either really good at what he does, or one of the workers here fancies him, probably both_, the deductions bounced around in my head. _Shut up, _I told it, though it probably wouldn't listen.

"Well, bit different from my day", John says.

"You've no idea!" Mike laughs.

"Only been here a couple of times" I said, "Though, I didn't have much time to make observations due to the fact I would probably be suffering severe" I chuckled. See, you have two ways to talk about bad things, say the reality, or laugh about it. Ok, I may have taken that from one of my favorite books (loosely) but that's not important. John raised an eyebrow, probably wondering why I talked about having to go to hospital because of pain, if it was that bad, and laughed it off.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine" the man said, with a deep, baritone voice, that kind of reminded me of Snape, but in a much hotter way. Again, don't want to date him, just am saying things that are true.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text"

"Sorry. It's in my coat" Mike apologized.

"Give it to you, but mine's dead, and it takes five hours just to get it back to 1%" I joked.

"Er, here. Use mine.", John offered.

"Oh. Thank you." The man walks up to John and Mike introduces us.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson, and a not-so-old friend of mine, Harper Nickolsen"

The man takes the phone, and partially turns away from us, opening the keypad, and asking John.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked. Either Mike told him, which would be boring, or he actually can deduce people. I am really crossing my fingers for it to be the latter. I really hope I won't have boring potential flatmates.

John frowns and looks at me, then at Mike. Mike smiles. _Ok, so this is a common thing for him, good, he won't be that boring._

"Sorry?"

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man says, raising his eyes to John before looking back at the phone.

John looks to Mike and I, with Mike smiling smugly._  
_

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know-how did either of you know?"

A girl with relatively long brown hair tied into a ponytail walks into the room.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." I had a feeling this was the result of an earlier ask to go out for coffee misinterpreted._  
_

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asked.

"It wasn't working for me" she said awkwardly. _Definitely fancies him._

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He takes the coffee and grimaces at the taste, I can see Molly's expression turning into a frown._  
_

"Okay." She goes to leavethe room, probably to put on more lipstick._  
_

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asks.

John looks around, probably to see who the man is talking to. He then realizes he is talking to him and I.

John asks, "I'm sorry, what?" at the same time I say "As long as he plays it well, don't see why not"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other" the man throws a false smile at us

John looks confused, he looks round at Mike while I say, "As long as you don't mind the fact that sometimes I rarely leave my room", the man chuckles, his false smile turning into a smirk.

"Oh, you ... you told him about us?" he asks.

"Not a word"

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" he asked

"_I_ did." the man said at the same time I scoffed, "Well it's not like it's hard to guess!"

"Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap"

"How _did_ either of you know about Afghanistan?" he asks us. We both ignored the question, me so I don't scare John and him for who-knows-what. He puts his scarf around his neck and checks his mobile.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together the three of us ought to be able to afford it"

The man walks towards us.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary" I chuckle, _Well, that's not a sentence you hear every day.__  
_

He puts his mobile in his pocket and walks toward the door, past us.

"Is that it?" John asks, in disbelief.

"Is that what?" the man asks.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" Don't see why john has such a problem with that, if you get to know someone and _then _look at a flat, flatsharing with them gets rather boring.

"Problem?" He asks.

"I don't see a problem with it at all, be a bit boring if we knew every single about each other" I say with a smirk, the man smirks back at me._  
_

John smiles at Mike in disbelief, looking at Mike, Mike just smiles his, '_I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Smile'_

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name"

He looks closely at us before speaking

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." John looks down and shuffles his feet. The man points at me, "I know you're a struggling actor who has an extremely wealthy family, that you refuse to take any money from, most likely out of pride. I also know that you are extremely desperate for a flatmate, and will go to various lengths to get one" I blink, I have never met someone in my life who could deduce people like that.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?", he says with a smug grin.

He goes to walk out of the room, but leans back into the room.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street"

He click-winks at John looks round at Mike. _If that isn't flirting then I don't know what is._

"Afternoon" he says while walking out the door.

"Yeah. He's always like that." He says to us.

I leave Bart's contemplating whether to go. But then I thought, _Sure, doesn't seem that boring._

Sherlock Holmes, an extraordinary name for an extraordinary man.


	2. The Game is On!

**Don't own Sherlock or anything that Harper references.**

* * *

I spent the rest of that day wondering whether or not I should go. I mean, I only just met them. Then again, that was the rational part of me thinking, and anyone who's ever met me in my entire life knows that I am not a rational person. I decided to looks up Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (separately, of course).

The former had a website, The Science of Deduction.  Fairly interesting website. Nothing too exciting.

The latter had a blog that didn't have anything on it. It just said, The Personal Blog of John H. Watson. I knew that, if we were to move in together, I would find out what the 'H' stands for. I mean, I know it's his middle name, but still, I needed to know. If you want an explanation, just say it's 'For Science!'

After thinking for a while, I finally decided to go. The landlord was probably going to kick me out soon anyway. Let's face it, if I was living in a flat that I owned, I would probably kick myself out too. The flat I lived in was extremely messy, papers and unidentifiable liquids all over the place. It's not like this unorganized excuse for a flat was a new thing, I had been unorganized my entire life, from me hardly being able to move around in my room when I was three, to my bag for school having random papers that were probably worth my entire grade.

After all, Dr. Watson seemed nice and that Sherlock Holmes fellow was, well, interesting. You'd be lying if you said you weren't the tiniest bit intrigued by him when you first meet him. I get it, he can be an arsehole, and you'll realize this the more you know him. But he is interesting, whether I mean this in a good way or bad, you would have to guess yourself. And if I say someones interesting, they must be REALLY interesting because, well, I find a lot of people boring.

_So it's settled, _I thought, _I'm going to check out a flat with two people I just met who could both be psychopathic murders._ _Well, if they are, at least it won't be boring!_

* * *

At 7:00 the next day I packed a bag filled with things I usually carry around, books and pens, etc. and hailed a cab and went to the address.

"221B Baker Street please"

The outside was nice, rather nice spot in general. I'm not going to bore you with the details since you probably know what it looks like. I saw a cab pull up and Sherlock got out of it. I shook Sherlock's hand.

"Nice to get a proper introduction Mr. Holmes" I hated formalities, so I was hoping he would correct me, telling me to call him by his first name.

"Sherlock, please," Good, no more formalities.

My head turned when I heard a voice say, "Ah, Mr. Holmes, Ms. Nikolsen"

"Sherlock, please"

"Just Harper is fine"

"So this is a prime spot," John began, "Must be expensive"

"Oh," Sherlock said, "Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" From the smirk Sherlock had on his face, I could tell that this was definitely not the case.

"Oh no," he said with a mischievous grin. "I ensured it." I laughed, not because I thought it was a joke, but because of the look of confusion on John's face. The door was opened by an old woman who, I presumed to be Mrs. Hudson, opens her arms to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson actually reminded me of my Gran, my paternal one not the maternal one. The maternal one was awful, never had fun when I was forced to go over her house when she babysat me as a kid. Didn't even cry at her funeral.

"Sherlock, hello," Mrs Hudson greeted. Sherlock returned the hug. Now that I think about it, it looked like such a foreign gesture, of course, back then, I wouldn't have known that since I knew the man for less than 48 hours.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson and Ms. Harper Nikolsen," Sherlock introduced. I even hated the 'Ms' part of that. That's literally how much I hate formalities. I had to grow up with an extremely formal family, so I don't know why I wasn't given a medal when I moved out.

"Hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted.

"Nice to meet you," I said with a smile, whether it was genuine or not, I can't tell you simply because I don't know myself.

"How do?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson gestured us to come inside, "Come in"

"Thank you," John said. Those two words were severely foreign to my tongue, so I was just going to have false hope that John saying it applies to the both of us.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked. We went inside to the flat. Well, John hobbled into the flat, while Sherlock and I waited for him. Sherlock opened the door to the flat. When I walked in, the first thing I said was "Homey". Of course, I meant to think that, not say it out loud. I still am not going to take back that statement, though, because, it was true if you put it into perspective. The flat looked, well, lived-in. Still not as bad as my flat. I like to think of the flat (Still do, in fact) as organized chaos. Nothing like most of my house when I grew up, as if we were trying to impress someone who wasn't there.

"Well this could be very nice" John thought out loud, "Very nice indeed"

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock said, looking around the flat happily.

"Not as bad as my flat" I said, looking around the flat, earning a chuckle from John and Sherlock.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in," Sherlock said at the same time as John said, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh"

"So this is all ...," John trailed off awkwardly.

"Hey," I said, "If you think this is bad, it will be a hell of a lot worse once I move in"

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," he says, half-heartedly putting folders into boxes, and stabbing a knife into some papers onto the mantel. That's when I first noticed the skull. I didn't think it was that weird. I own a plastic head, like from Doctor Who. I would just throw it around when I was extremely bored.

"That's a skull," John pointed out.

"Brilliant deduction there Dr. Watson," I said, voice oozing with sarcasm. This earned another chuckle from Sherlock.

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'" Sherlock said. Now it was my turn to laugh.

"No problem, really, got a plastic head back at my flat" John gave me a puzzled look, but a look of amusement replaced it.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson, Ms. Nikolsen? There's two bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ three bedrooms"

"Of course we'll be needing three" John said.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here," she says, then dropping her voice to a whisper, "Mrs Turner next door's got married ones" It took all of my willpower to stop myself from bursting out into a fit of laughter at what Mrs. Hudson was insinuating. Mrs. Hudson walks over to the kitchen, then turns back and frowns at Sherlock, "Oh Sherlock, the mess you've made" I saw John walk to one of the two armchairs and sit down. _If the three of us will be living here, there's going to have to be a third. _I decided to sit down in the one facing opposite.

"I looked you up on the internet last night" John said.

"I looked you both up to," I said, "Personal Blog of John H. Watson right?" John nodded.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked us.

"The Science of Deduction?" John asked, unsure.

"What did you think?"

I said, "Nothing too exciting but a fairly interesting website," which earned a fake-hurt look from Sherlock, while John said, "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb"

I scoffed, "Well it's not like it's hard!"

Sherlock gave me a look, which I really don't know how to describe, sort of like a raised eyebrow, but not a disbelieving look but sort of a disbelieving look. Yeah, it's hard to explain. He said to John, "Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," I just wanted to yell, _You got to see the phone and I didn't, so that's an unfair advantage_, but, of course, I didn't.

"How?" John asked. Sherlock just smiles, John looks at me as if to ask, H_ow _did_ **you **know? _I just smirked.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," Mrs Hudson said, coming in with a newspaper. I heard about that. I didn't know any of the victims personally, but the case intrigued me. I was sure that they were linked, because they all took the same poison, and I don't believe in coincidences.

Sherlock looks over to the window, "Four" he says, looking down, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time" Sherlock turns as a man, with gray hair, and not quite a bad looking face enters the room.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man says, most likely a D.I.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different"

"You know how they never leave notes?" The D.I. said.

"Yeah?" Sherlock responds?

"This one did. Will you come?" he asks.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked.

"It's Anderson," Sherlock grimaces, I had a strong feeling that Sherlock didn't like this Anderson bloke.

"Anderson won't work with me" _Great__ deduction Harper,_ I falsely praised myself.

"Well, he won't be your assistant" The D.I. said.

"I _need_ an assistant" I resisted the urge to yell _I'LL DO IT! _because I've always found murder (Well, serial suicide) cases to be extremely interesting. I would look up cold murder cases as a kid. By cold, I meant, 200 years ago cold. I would love to visiting the crime scene.

"Will you come?" The D.I. asks, no, pleads.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock says.

"Thank you" The D.I. looks around at Mrs. Hudson, John, and I and leaves the flat.

Sherlock waits until the D.I. leaves and leaps into the air and clenches his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He gets his scarf and his coat and starts to put them on as he heads to the kitchen, "Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson responds, but Sherlock ignores her.

"Something cold will do. John, Harper, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He grabs a leather pouch from the table and he opens the kitchen door and disappears from my view.

"Look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was just the same," Mrs. Hudson sighs. I, again, have to resist the urge to burst out laughing from the implication that two out of the three of us were together, even three of us together. John grimaces at the implication.

"But you both are more the sitting-down type, I can tell," she says to us.

"Oh no" I say to Mrs. Hudson, "exact opposite in fact" I say with a genuine smile.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg. Anything for you Harper?" she asks.

"Oh no I'm fine" I respond while John says, "_Damn_ my leg!", which made me think of the fish from Spongebob, you know, the _My leg! _one?\

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing ...," he apologizes, bashing his leg with his cane. _Psychosomatic_, I think in a sing-songy voice._  
_

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip," she says, turning towards the door.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you," John requests.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," she says the phrase-that-I-will-find-out-later-is-used-a-lot.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em"

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson says.

John picks up the newspaper with the report of Beth Davenport's suicide. I got one of my favourite books from the bag I was carrying, _The Fault In Our_ Stars, and started reading from just a random page. My reading is interrupted by a familiar baritone voice.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor," he states.

"Yes" John says, getting to his feet to look at Sherlock.

"Any good?" Sherlock asks.

"Very good"

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," Sherlock says.

"Mmm, yes," John responds.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," John responds quietly.

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh _God_, yes,"

"And you," Sherlock says, pointing to me.

"And me what?" I say with a smirk.

"You're into strange cases aren't you? Before you ask, it was the script poking out of your bag,"

"Course I'm into that kind of stuff," I respond, a smile growing on my face, "Who wouldn't be?"

"How about seeing a real murder?" he asked.

"Definitely," I say, not even trying to hide the grin that was starting to appear on my face.

Sherlock spins on his heel and leads us out of the room. John calls out as we go down the stairs, "Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out,"

"All three of you?" she asks, near the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock is right near the front door but turns around to Mrs. Hudson, "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" My first thought was the fact that he looks like a child that just got a new toy that he kept asking for the entire year. He kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," Mrs. Hudson says, but she has a smile on her face.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" he says, going out the door.

I will always miss the time when he said that.

* * *

**As soon as I start getting reviews, I will start responding to them in this general area. We've got the plot moving, even a tiny bit into Harper's childhood. Please review! I always accept constructive criticism. **


	3. Dreadful Shade of Pink, Honestly

**What would happen if I didn't say I didn't own it? Anyway I don't own Sherlock or anything Harper references. I do own Harper and a bagel.**

* * *

"Taxi!" Sherlock called out, hailing a cab. The taxi pulled up and we all get in. It was extremely awkward for the first bit of the ride, like when your getting a haircut. The only difference (well, besides the lack of hair being cut) was no one was trying to make small talk that makes it even more awkward. It was one of those times where I wished I had an iPhone, so I could just play one of those games that kills brain cells instead of just staring off into space. I didn't even have a book to separate me from the rest of this uninteresting world.

"Okay, you've got questions," Sherlock finally said.

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene," Sherlock and I say at the same time. Wasn't that difficult to figure out the more you think about it. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "Next"

John laughed, "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you both think?" Sherlock asked.

"Some form of detective," I said, unsure.

"I'd say private detective ..." John trailed off.

"But?"

"... but the police don't go to private detectives"

"I'm a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," All my fears of boring flatmates were tossed out the window.

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Now that was Younger Me's dream.

"The police don't consult amateurs," You really think _this guy's _an amateur John? Really?

Sherlock threw him a 'Look', "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised,"

"Yeah, she asked that too-" he said, pointing to me.

"Oi! This 'she' has a name"

"Sorry, Harper asked that too, how did you both know?"

"I didn't know," Sherlock began.

"I saw," I finished,

"There's your haircut" Sherlock started.

"Don't forget the way he holds himself"

"Yes that, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said 'trained at Bart's'"

"And Mike introduced us, saying they were at Bart's together" I explained.

"Your face is tanned"

"But no tan above the wrists" I finished.

"Meaning you've been abroad, but not sunbathing," Sherlock said.

"Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic"

"Wounded in action, then," Sherlock pointed out, "Wounded in action"

"Suntan"

"Afghanistan or Iraq," we both finished, Sherlock clicked the 'k' sound.

"You said I had a therapist" John questioned. I tried to keep myself from laughing.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of _course_ you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother" I wanted to show off too, but I didn't get to see the phone.

"Hmm?" John asked.

Sherlock held out his hand to take the phone, "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare" John gives him the phone. "– you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then"

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already,"

"The engraving" John said. The engraving on the phone is:

_Harry Watson_  
_From Clara_  
_xxx_

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left _him_, he would have kept it. People do –

"Sentiment" I added on

"But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't _like his drinking"

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark," Sherlock smirked.

"Good one though," I pointed out.

"Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them" He handed the phone back to John, "There you go, you see – you were right"

_"I_ was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock looked out the side window, biting his lip nervously. I know that feeling, after an entire childhood of torment for being a genius, I am a tiny bit afraid of deducing people. I was also afraid that I had gone too far. Deducing things that were obvious to normal people was one thing, but deducing things that only a few people would notice, it usually drives them away. I had an entire lifetime worth of experience of that.

"That ... was amazing"

I saw Sherlock's look of surprise on his face, and couldn't help but think that I had the same expression on my face.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked while I raised an eyebrow. Very few people had responded to me like that, and I supposed that was the same for him too.

"Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary"

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" We all share a grin.

"They usually don't say anything to me," I said, half-joking, "just either turn away or punch me in the face, sometimes both"

* * *

"Did I-

"We"

Sherlock sighs, "'We' get anything wrong?"

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker"

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything" Sherlock had a cocky look on his face, one that was not foreign to my own.

"And Harry's short for Harriet," Sherlock stopped right in his tracks. I started laughing hysterically.

"Harry's your sister,"

John continued on, "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

_"Sister!_" Sherlock angrily said, through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am we doing here?"

"Yeah, don't see why we would have to be here," I said.

"There's always something" Sherlock starts walking towards the police tape.

When we finally got to the police tape, a woman (Probably a sergeant) says to Sherlock, "Hello, freak" I grit my teeth. I have been called that many times in my childhood, and I do not want to relive those memories. The strange thing about this woman was she was wearing _men's _deodorant.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade" Most likely the guy that was at the flat earlier.

"Why?"

"I was invited,"

_"Why?" _I was really started to get pissed off with her.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducks underneath it "Always, Sally" Sherlock breathed through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night"

"I don't ..." She trailed off, she looked at John and I and finally realized we exist. "Er, who are they?"

"Colleagues of mine, Doctor Watson and Harper Nikolsen"

"Doctor Watson, Ms. Nikolsen, Sergeant Sally Donovan, old friend" He said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Colleagues? How do _you_ get colleagues?! A female one at that?"

Donovan turned to us, "What, did he follow you home?"

"Well, technically Doctor Watson and I followed him home" I laughed. John laughs and Sherlock shows me one of his rare smiles.

"Would it be better if we just waited and ..."

Sherlock lifted the tape for us, "No,"

Donovan holds a radio to her mouth, "Freak's here. Bringing him in," she leads us to the old, abandoned house. As we reached the pavement, a man in a coverall comes out of the house. The man wasn't the best looking thing my eyes have ever seen, I'll leave it at that. The thing I did notice, though, was that he was wearing the same deodorant that Donovan was 'wearing'.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again" Sherlock greets. So this was the guy on forensics that Sherlock oh-so obviously didn't like.

The feeling seems mutual, as he looks at him with obvious distaste, "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that"

"Your deodorant told me that,"

"My deodorant?"

Sherlock had a quirky expression on his face, "It's for men,"

"Well, of _course_ it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan," I started laughing but I tried (and failed) to hide it with a cough.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

Anderson turns back and points at him angrily, "Now look: whatever you're trying to imply ..."

"I'm not implying _anything" _Sherlock heads past Donovan towards the front door._  
_  
"I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," Sherlock turns back.

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees" Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. It took all of my willpower to not burst into hysterics due to the look on their faces. Sherlock smiles smugly, then turns and goes into the house. John walked past Donovan and looked down at her knees. We both followed Sherlock inside. Sherlock lead us to a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a coverall. Sherlock pointed down to a pile of coveralls..

Sherlock looked at us, "Both of you will need to wear one of these"

"Who're they?"

Sherlock took his gloves off, "They're with me,"

"But who _are _they?"

"I _said_ they're with me,"

John and I picked up coveralls and John looks at Sherlock

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" he asked. Sherlock looked at him sternly. John shook his head and I could just tell he was thinking sarcastically, 'Silly me. What was I thinking?'

Sherlock asked Lestrade, "So where are we?

Lestrade picked up a pair of latex gloves. "Upstairs"

* * *

"I can give you two minutes" Lestrade said.

"May need longer," Sherlock said casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her" Lestrade explained. He lead us up to a room two stories above the ground floor. The room was all empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting was set up. Scaffolding poles held up a part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes were. A woman's body was lying face down of the bare floorboards. She was wearing an awful shade of pink. Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and stopped. He held one hand out in front of himself as he focuses on the corpse.

_Works in the media._

I also noticed that the word '_Rache_' was written on her left. Her nails, probably normally nice and even, were jagged, but only on her left side.

_Left-handed._

_Rache? That's German for revenge but why would she write that? Rache...l. Just didn't get to finish the message. But why would she write that?_

John looked at the woman's body and I could see his face filled with pain and sadness. I made an "Ugh" sound and only John seemed to notice. He shot me look that said, 'You okay?'

I whispered to him, "Yeah, it's just a dreadful shade of pink"

The four of us just stood there in silence until Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "Shut up,"

Lestrade said, startled, "I didn't say anything"

"You were thinking. It's annoying,"

Lestrade and John exchanged a surprised look as Sherlock stepped slowly forward until he reached the side of the corpse. He was examining the body. He was, more likely than not, making deductions.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock responds nonchalantly "Not much,"_ You lying- _

He stood up and took the gloves off and gets his mobile from his pocket and types on it.

Anderson was leaning casually against the door, "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something …"

As Anderson began speaking and walks quickly towards the door and closes it Anderson's face.

Sherlock sarcastically says, "Yes, thank you for your input,"_  
_

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was looking on his phone, "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ...," he smiles, "... before returning home to Cardiff,"

"So far, so obvious,"

"Sorry – obvious?" John asked. I was itching to see the body, see what else I could deduce.

"What about the message, though?"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade, "Doctor Watson, Miss Nikolsen, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John asked.

"Of the body. You're a medical man" he said while pointing to John, "and I know you like this kind of thing"

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade protests.

"They won't work with me,"

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here,"

"Yes ... because you need me,"  
Lestrade stared at him for a moment and lowered his eyes helplessly, "Yes, I do. God help me,"

"Doctor Watson, Miss Nikolsen,"

"Hm?" John asked.

He looked up from the body to Sherlock. John and I turned our heads towards Lestrade, making sure we had permission._  
_

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," Lestrade turns and opens the door, going outside,

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes,"

All three of us walked over to the body. Sherlock and I squat down on one side and John painfully lowers himself onto one knee on the other, leaning heavily on his cane for support.

"Well?" Sherlock asks.

John whispered, "What are we doing here?"

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock whispered back.

"We're supposed to be helping you pay the rent,"

"Yeah, well, this is more fun,"

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead,"

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper,"

I start to examine the body. I notice all of her jewelry is clean, but her wedding ring isn't. I take the wedding ring off and see that it is clean on the inside.

_Unhappily married 10+ years. Serial adulterer._

I felt her coat and examined the gloves.

_Wet._

I saw she had an umbrella, so I felt it, and it was dry. I remember hearing about rain in Cardiff.

_From Cardiff._

There was also splash marks on the back of her heel and calf. Size of the splash marks indicates one night.

_From Cardiff, intending to stay for one night. Never made it to the hotel._

"Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs" John finally said, after examining the corpse.

"You know what it was. You've read the papers," Sherlock said.

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth ...?" John questioned.

"Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stands up. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked. John looked around for a suitcase.

"Suitcase, yes," He paused, "Have anything Ms. Nikolsen?"

"Yes actually" I say with a crooked grin, "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married,"

"Oh for God's sake if she's making this up.

Sherlock pointed down to her left hand, "No, she's right. Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them,"

"That's brilliant," Sherlock looks round at him while I raise an eyebrow, "Sorry"

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's painfully obvious" I continued.

"It's not obvious to me," John said.

Sherlock looks at Lestrade and John, "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring" Sherlock turns back to the body, "Her coat: it's slightly damp,"

"She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours," I chimed in.

"No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind," Sherlock said.

"She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, _strong_ wind"

"– too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

Sherlock takes out his phone and shows it.

We both said, "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" John praised.

"D'you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked.

John apologized, "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's ... fine," Sherlock assured.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was spinning around a circle to look around the room, "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asked. I rolled my eyes.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of _course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock wondered.

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock pointed down to the body, "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squatted down to the body.

"Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade responded.

Sherlock frowned and raised his head to Lestrade, "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."_  
_

Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door. He called out to all of the police officers in the house and began to hurry down the stairs, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"_  
_

We all followed him out and stopped at the landing. Lestrade called down, "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slowed down but was still making his way down the stairs, "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks; _And_ ...?" Lestrade asked.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – _serial_ killings," Sherlock held his hands up in front of his face in delight, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love _those. There's always something to look forward to."_  
_

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock stopped, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case," He talked quietly, probably more to himself than us, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John suggested. _No, no, NO John_

Sherlock looked up the stairs again, "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking ...," he stopped talking and looked like he just realized something, "Oh," his eyes widened and his face lit up, "_Oh!_" he clapped his hand in delight.

"Sherlock?" John asked

"Have you got something?" I asked.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade asked, leaning over the railing.

Sherlock was smiling cheerfully to himself, "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade said.

"Oh, we're _done_ waiting!" he started to hurry down the stairs again, "Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we _have _a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" he reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from my view._  
_

Lestrade called after him, "Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!"

Sherlock came back into view and ran up a couple of stairs so that he could be seen and he yells up to Lestrade, "_PINK!"_

* * *

"He's gone," Donovan said as John and I reached the police tape.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" John asked.

"Didn't look like it."

"Right," John looked around the area, unsure of what to do, "Right ... Yes," he turned to Donovan agin, "Sorry where am I?"

"Brixton," I said.

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er ... well ... my leg."

"Er ...," she stepped over to the tape and lifted it for us,"try the main road"

"Thanks," John said.

"But you're not his friend." Donovan stated, "Neither of you are. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"Well," I began, "I don't have friends either, maybe we can start a don't-have-friends-club!" I finished with an obvious false cheeriness.

John chuckled, "I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him"

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

"Why?" John asked.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

John asked, "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

Lestrade called from the entrance to the house, "Donovan!"

She turned to him, "Coming," she turns back towards us as she walks towards the house, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Getting a cab back to Baker Street was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I wondered if I was invisible, or I was just reliving some sort of memory. I growled in defeat and kept walking. The walking didn't stop until I saw a phone booth ring. I smirk, 'What's the worst that can happen?' I went to the phone booth and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

A man's voice was on the other end of the phone, "Do you see a camera on the building to your left, Ms. Nikolsen"

"Yes... and who's speaking?"

"Watch."

The camera, which was pointed directly at the phone box, swiveled away.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" the voice continued.

"Yeah" The camera swiveled away.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right," the voice finished. I stared at the camera, which turned away.

"Get into the car, Ms. Nikolsen," a black car pulled up at the curbside near the phone. The driver got up and opened the rear door.

"I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

So I did what any person with logic and a sense of wanting to live to the next day wouldn't do. I got into the car. There was no one in the back seat with me, so it just felt extremely awkward (Course, it would have felt extremely awkward if someone was in the backseat with me, so it's a lose-lose situation) . After what seemed like forever, the car pulled into an empty warehouse. A man in a suit was standing in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella. I got out of the car (obviously).

"Have a seat, Harper" he said, pointing to the armless chair with his umbrella.

"Ok..." I trailed off, sitting down, "Why here though, I mean, that was extremely cool and James Bond-ish, but I do have a phone and, since you seem to know who I am, you probably have my number."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

"So, why 'kidnap' me?"

"Just a few questions, nothing serious," he had a smile on his face that said he had ways of knowing the serious stuff, "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Nothing really, just met him yesterday, doesn't seem that bad a bloke."

"Even though you've only just met him, you've decided to move in with him and solve crimes with him. Is that 'nothing really'"

"Doesn't matter who he is really, I'm just doing it because solving crimes seems extremely cool and I'm probably going to get kicked out of the flat I'm living in any day now. Now my turn to ask a question, who are you?"

"An interested party."

"I highly doubt that's your name. If it is, I'm sorry, Mr. Interested Party. Why are you so interested in Sherlock. If you're avoiding him you are most likely not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"Family?" He ignored me.

"An enemy"

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Says Mr. James Bond"

An Interested Party continued, "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sure. Why not? It's not like he's a pyscho-killer." I laugh, "At least I hope." An Interested Party put on a humourless grin that kind of says, _I-will-kill-you-and-make-it-look-like-an-accident._

"If you _do_ move into two hundred and twenty-one _B_ Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why would I accept it? Money from a stranger I just met?"

"Because you're not that wealthy. You could of course go to you're family for help but..."

"I refuse to accept money from them" I didn't even wonder at the time how he knew this.

"I'll accept it" An Interested Party (I'll call him AIP from now on) smirked a Disney-Villain grin.

"Excellent. You will be contacted later for further information. Ah, there's your ride now" A car pulled up, with a rather good-looking (_hot)_ woman with dark hair leaving it and John leaving it. _So AIP kidnapped you too? _

I sort of took that as a hint to leave. The woman said, "I'm to take you home" We both got into the car, "Where to?"

"Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street," The woman nodded, "You've told your boss about this haven't you?" She nodded again, I laughed, "Do I get a name?"

"Anthea"

"Not your real name is it?"

"Nope"

* * *

**Well, what'd you think? I am really looking for reviews, just some sort of CC. Harper got some more lines. Don't worry, she'll be talking more in later chapters. Harper is writing this down, sort of like a memoir. She is writing this down, let's say, two weeks after TRF.**


	4. Welcome to London

**Don't own it, as usual.**

* * *

Once I got back to 221b, I saw Sherlock lying on the couch, concentrating? Well he was pressing something against his arm, didn't know what at the time.

"What in God's name are you doing?" I asked.

"Nicotine patch," he lifted his hand, revealing three nicotine patches.

"Three?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Three-patch problem," he said simply.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

"No, I have a blog that has my phone number on it, someone could have seen it so it could be recognised. And since you don't want to use yours even though it's perfectly capable of sending a text or calling someone, you probably don't want it to be recognised." The blog was for potential acting agents, in case anyone saw me on stage or in anything else and wanted to contact me.

"Not bad," he said as he got up and went to his phone. He started texting something.

While he was texting who-knows-what, I finally said, "I met someone you probably know."

"Who?"

"An enemy with an umbrella."

Sherlock chuckled, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yup," I said, popping the 'p'.

"Did you take it?"

"Course I did."

"Good, we'll split the fee."

"Who is he, anyway?" I asked.

"One of the most dangerous people you will ever meet, and not my problem at the moment."

"What is this problem that calls for three patches anyway?" I asked, trying to change the subject. Sherlock put down his phone and went back to lying on the couch.

"Suitcase," was all he said. Sherlock went back to, concentrating? I think? Anyway he was back in the same position he was when I came back from being kidnapped by AIP. I took this as a hint that he did not want to be bothered. So, I just sat down on one of the armchairs by the fireplace. A little while later John finally came back from being kidnapped from AIP.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think," he lifted his right hand to show the three nicotine patches he had on.

"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work," he said, clicking the 'k' on 'work'.

John walked further into the room, "It's good news for breathing."

"Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring."

John frowned, "Is that three patches?"

"I know right?" I asked John.  
Sherlock pressed his hands together in some sort of prayer position, "It's a three-patch problem," he closed his eyes.

John looked around the room, then looked back down at Sherlock, "Well?" Sherlock didn't respond, "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important," So _that's _who he was texting.

Sherlock didn't respond instantly, but then his eyes snapped open and didn't bother to turn his head to look at John, "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John asked, shocked.

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It's on the website."

"Mrs Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

"Harper has a phone!" he said, beginning to get pissed off.

"Mine was dead" I interrupted, before Sherlock could.

"I _was_ the other side of London."

"There was no hurry."

John glared at him as Sherlock gazed at the ceiling before he closed his eyes again, eventually John got his phone out of his pocket and holds it towards Sherlock, "Here"

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his right hand. John glowered at him for a moment, but then stepped forward and slapped the phone in his hand. Sherlock slowly lifted his arm and put his hands together again, with the phone in between his palms. John turned and walked a few paces away before turning around again, "So, what's this about - the case?"

Sherlock softly said, "Her case."

"_Her_ case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

John asked, "Okay, he took her case. So?"

Sherlock quietly said,"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," he held out the phone, raising his voice, "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

John half-smiled in angry disbelief, "You brought me here ... to send a text."

Sherlock was, of course, oblivious, "Text, yes. The number on my desk," he held out the phone while John glowered at him. He stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes. John walked over the window and looked out of it into the street. Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly towards him, "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

Sherlock frowned in confusion, "A _friend_?"

"An enemy," So he's talking about 'Umbrella Man'._  
_

Sherlock relaxed, "Oh. Which one?"

"Your _arch_-enemy, according to him," He turned towards Sherlock, "Do people _have_ arch-enemies?"_  
_

Sherlock looked towards him, narrowing his eyes, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

Sherlock softly said, "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now," he raised his voice, "On my desk, the number."

John gave him a dark look but Sherlock had already looked away again so John walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. He looked at the name on the paper, "Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number," John shook his head and got his phone out and started to type the number in, "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

SHERLOCK: Have you _done_ it?

JOHN: Ye... hang on!

"These words exactly: "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out," John started to type but looked briefly across to Sherlock, "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."

He looked across to Sherlock again, frowning, "You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!" he flipped his legs around and stood up, going to the kitchen, "Type and send it. Quickly," I turned around from the chair I was sitting in and saw Sherlock taking a small pink suitcase from a chair and brought it back into the living room. _That's Jennifer Wilson's case. Not the murderer though, wouldn't be stupid enough to reveal he has it._ He walked over to the dining table and lifted one of the chairs and flipped it around, setting it down in the armchair opposite me. He put the suitcase onto the dining chair and sat down in the armchair, "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!"

John finished the message, then looked round as Sherlock unzipped the case and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents. There were a few items of clothing and underwear – all in varying shades of pink – a washbag, and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled "Come To Bed Eyes". As John turned towards the case he staggered slightly in shock as he realised what he was looking at, "That's ... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

Sherlock studied the case closely, "Yes, obviously," John continued to stare, "Oh, perhaps I should mention: _I_ didn't kill her," Sherlock sarcastically said, rolling his eyes.

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock smirked, "Now and then, yes," He put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the seat with his backside braced against the back rest, then clasped his hands under his chin.

"Okay..." I saw John limping closer so I got up out of the chair, to let him sit there, "Thanks," he dropped heavily into the armchair, "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

Sherlock looked at me, "Harper, I think you might be able to deduce how I found the case, wouldn't you? You don't seem as stupid as most people"

I smirked, "Well..." I began, "I had a couple theories in mind," I trailed off, Sherlock gave me a look that said to continue, "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake."

He smirked, "You aren't as stupid as you could have been. You're right, I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens... and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You _both _got all that because you realised the case would be pink?"

"Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't _I_ think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot," John looked across to him, startled. Sherlock made a placatory gesture with one hand, "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is," I smirked, happy to know I was not in that 'practically'. Sherlock refolded his hands and extended his index fingers to point at the case, "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How _could_ I?"

"Harper?"

"Her phone."

"Right, Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it." _The murderer has her phone._

"Maybe she left it at home."  
Sherlock put his hands onto the arms of the chair and raised himself up so that he can lower his feet to the floor, then sat down properly on the chair, "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home," He put the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case and looked at John expectantly._  
_

"Er ...," John looked down at his mobile phone which he put onto the arm of his chair, "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone _now_?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes," Sherlock trailed off.

"or ...?" I asked, hoping he would get it.

"The murderer ... You think the murderer has the phone?" John finally realised.

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone," Sherlock concluded.

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will _that_ do?" The phone started to ring, he look down at it, the phone said,

(withheld)  
calling

He looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer ...," he paused for a moment until the phone stopped ringing, "would panic," He flipped the lid of the suitcase closed and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continued to stare down at his phone, Sherlock put his jacket on and walked towards the door._  
_

John looked up, "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to _us_?"

Sherlock reaches behind the door to take his greatcoat from the hook. As he looks across towards John he notices that something is missing from the mantelpiece, "Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So we're basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine," neither of us moved from our current spots, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want us to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so ...," John smiled briefly, "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan." _Oh God._

Sherlock looked away in exasperation, "What about her?"

"She said ... You get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said "dangerous", and here you are."

Sherlock turned and walked out of the door and I put on my coat and followed, on our way out I could hear John say, "Damn it!"

* * *

"Where are we going?" John asked, finally catching up to us.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled, "No – I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?" John questioned.

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience."

"Nothing worse than being an _expert _at something, but no one appreciates it," I added on, speaking from personal experience.

John looked pointedly at him, "Yeah."

Sherlock was oblivious to implication, he spuns around to indicate the entire area as he continues down the road, "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go," He held up his hands on either side of his head as if to focus his thoughts, "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" All I could think of was public transportation.

"Dunno. Who?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" he lowered his hands and lead us to a small restaurant. The waiter near the door obvious knew him and gestured to a reserved table at the front window, "Thank you, Billy," Sherlock took his coat off and sat down on the bench seat at the side of the table and turned sideways so he can see out the window. I sat down in a chair on the outside of he table, facing towards the window. I put my jacket on the chair. Billy The Waiter took the 'reserved' sign off the table and John sat down on the other bench seat with his back to the window and took off his jacket, "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people," Sherlock reminded John.

"... Okay."

The manager of the restaurant came over, clearly pleased to see Sherlock, "Sherlock," they shook hands, "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free," he laid a couple on the menus on the table, "On the house, for you _and_ for your dates." _Dates? Well, I knew one person who was in a three-way relationship, but still, it's not the most common assumption._

"Do you want to eat?" he asked us.

"I'm not their dates," John corrected

"This man got me off a murder charge," Angelo said.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduce. Angelo offer his hand to John, then to me. We both shook it, "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name," He said to us.

"I cleared it a _bit_. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," He looked at John and I again, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Sherlock reminded him.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

John yelled out, as Angelo walked away, "I'm not his dates!"  
_(Sherlock puts his own menu down onto the table.)_

Sherlock put his own menu down on the table, "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He put it onto the table and gave John and I a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again, "Thanks!" he said tetchily.

* * *

After we got food (Well, John and I, Sherlock just sat there, looking out the window, drumming his fingers) John finally said, "People don't _have_ arch-enemies."

It took a moment but Sherlock finally looked round, "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock said, "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull." at the same time I said, "Tell that to my little brother."

John raised an eyebrow, urging me to carry on, "At the age of 11, my younger brother just barged into my room, declaring me his 'Arch-enemy' so therefore he had to ransack my room. Even at 25, he still considers me his 'Arch-enemy'. Course now it's just mainly to annoy my mum whenever she has tedious family gatherings," This earned a laugh from John, "I know, younger brothers are the worst, aren't they?"

John looked at Sherlock, "So who did I meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like" _There's a stronger word for that, _"... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

A moment passed, "Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock looked round at him sharply, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I _know_ it's fine."

John smiled, "So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No."

John's smile became fixed, "Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me," he paused, "Fine," he cleared his throat, "Good."

He continued eating. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously for a moment but then turned his attention out of the window again. However, he then appeared to replay John's statement in his head and looked a little startled. He turned his head towards John again, he started speaking rather awkwardly but rapidly sped up and was almost babbling, "John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ..." I started laughing but covered it with a cough, feeling secondhand embarrassment for John.

John interrupted, "No," He turned his head briefly to clear his throat, "No, I'm not asking. No, I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine.

Sherlock nodded "Good. Thank you." Sherlock turned his attention back to the street. John looked away with an expression on his face that said, '_What the hell was all that?_'

"What about you Harper? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?" John asked.

"I've tried the whole dating thing. Men _and _women. Most were stupid or boring. And apparently didn't like being called out on that. I've never had a full on boyfriend or girlfriend, so I guess you can say dating is definitely not my forte," I said, chuckling.

Suddenly, Sherlock nodded out of the window, "Look across the street. Taxi," John twisted in his seat to look out of the window. A taxi was park at the side of the road with its back end towards the restaurant, "Stopped," Sherlock explained, "Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out," In the rear seat of the taxi, the passenger was looking through the side windows, as if trying to see somebody particular, "Why a taxi?" he said, particularly to himself, "Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

"That's him?" John asked.

"Don't stare," Sherlock reprimanded.

John looked round at him, "_You're_ staring."

Sherlock said, "We can't _all_ stare."

"Harper's staring!"

"John, I'm facing the window. If I turned my head, it would look weird."

As Sherlock got to his feet, he grabbed his coat and scarf and headed for the door. John and I picked up our own jackets and followed I noticed how John had forgotten to take his walking cane with him. _Interesting._ Outside the door, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continued to look around him, then turned and looked out the back window. His gaze fell on the restaurant and he looks at it for a few moments while Sherlock stares back at him, then the man turns towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi begins to pull away from the kerb. Sherlock immediately headed towards it without bothering to check the road that he was running into and was almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car but Sherlock allowed his forward impetus to carry him onto the top of the bonnet. He rolled over the bonnet, landed on his feet on the other side and then ran after the taxi. I followed Sherlock, going around the car. As the driver of the car angrily sounded his horn, John put one hand on the bonnet and vaults over the front of the car, apologising to the driver as he goes,

"Sorry," John chased after us. We ran a few yards up the road before both of us realising we're not going to catch the taxi and we both stopped. John finally caught up and stopped beside Sherlock and I, "I've got the cab number."

"Good for you," Sherlock brought up his hands to either side of his head, probably concentrating, "Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights," Sherlock lifted his head. We saw a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Sherlock raced towards the man and grabbed him shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

"Oy!"

John and I hurried after Sherlock, John raised and apologetic hand to the man as we went into the building, "Sorry," he apologised._  
_

The three of us raced up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. Sherlock goes up fast, me following closely behind hims. John struggled to keep up with him as he scurried up behind him, "Come on, John," Sherlock reached the top of the stairs. Sherlock ran to the edge and looked over before seeing a shorter metal spiral staircase leading down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. He galloped down the stairs and climbs onto the railing before leaping across the gap to the next building, me following him. John scrambled onto the railing and followed. Sherlock and I ran across to the other side of the roof and again leaped across to the next building. John raced after us, but then skid to a halt as he realised that the gap may be too big for him to jump across. As if in sympathy, pedestrian traffic lights on the ground changed from the green "It is safe to cross" sign to the red "Stop and wait" sign. John hesitated, looking down at the drop beneath him, "Come _on_, John. We're losing him!"

John backed up a few paces and braced himself. As the traffic lights changed to "Safe to cross" again, he took a run-up and leaped the gap. He dropped down onto a walkway along the side of the building. Then all three of us ran onwards. As the taxi continued its journey on the ground, the three of us galloped down another metal staircase, then ran to a ledge and dropped down into an alleyway before we ran onwards again. Sherlock lead us down the alleyway as, as we kept running to D'Arblay Street, where the taxi was just turning into. Sherlock turns the corner and races down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left, Sherlock angrily said, "Ah, no!" he raced out of the end of the alley and turned right, "This way," Instinctively John turned left in pursuit of the taxi, "No, _this_ way!" Sherlock yelled.

"Sorry." John apologised. He turned and headed back, following Sherlock and I. We head down more alleyways and side streets and we finally stopped at Wardour Street where Sherlock and I raced out of a side street and hurled himself into the pathway of the cab, me stopping just before I went into the pathway. Sherlock pulled out an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right side of the cab.

"Police! Open her up!" Sherlock was panting heavily as he tugged open the rear door and stared in at the passenger while I walked up. He straightened up in exasperation as John joined us. I saw the passenger and his luggage. _Californian. _I wanted to tell my mind to piss off, but sadly, my mind never and will not work that way, "No," Sherlock leaned down again and looked at the passenger a second time, "Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" He looked at the luggage, "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived," He straightened up again, grimacing.

_"_How can you _possibly_ know that?" John asked.

"The luggage," I supplied.

Sherlock said to the passenger, "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry – are you guys the police?" The poor bloke asked. Just minding his own business and stopped by a fake policeman.

"Yeah," he flashed the I.D. badge briefly at the man, "Everything all right?"

The man was smiling, "Yeah."  
_(Sherlock pauses for a moment as if wondering how to finish this conversation, then smiles falsely at the man.)_

Sherlock paused for moment, probably wondering how to finish the conversation, smiled falsely at the man, "Welcome to London," He immediately walked away, me following him._  
_

John caught up to us, "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically," Sherlock answered.

"Not the murderer." John said for clarification.

"_Not_ the murderer, no."

"Wrong country." John began.

"Good alibi." I finished.

"As they go," Sherlock switched the I.D. card from one hand to another.

John seemed to notice this as well, "Hey, where-where did you get this? Here," He reached for the card and Sherlock released it, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat. I'll give you one, Harper, when we get back to the flat," John nodded, then looked down at the card before he lifted his head and giggled, "What?"

"Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London'."  
_(Sherlock chuckles, then looks down the road to where a police officer has apparently gone to investigate why the cab has stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger has got out and is pointing down the road towards the boys.)_

Sherlock chuckled, then looked down the road where a police officer had apparently gone to investigate why the cab had stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger had gotten out and pointed down the road towards Sherlock, John, and I, "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are."

"I'm always ready," We turned and ran off down the road._  
_


	5. It's a Drug's Bust!

**Don't own it. BBC Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Sherlock Holmes and the characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, who would be having a mental breakdown at the amount of fanfiction being written and produced off Sherlock Holmes. Warning, this has not been Brit-picked and I'm just relying on the transcript writer who is most likely British**

* * *

"Okay, that was ridiculous."

"Have to agree with you on that one John," I said, laughing. Sherlock, John, and I were leaning against the wall, still trying to catch our breaths.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

John giggled and Sherlock and I both began to laugh, "That wasn't just me," Sherlock chuckled, "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John finally asked.

Sherlock became more serious and waved his hand dismissively, "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John asked

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Oh, just passing the time," he replied. He look at John, "And proving a point."

"What point?" John asked.

"You." Sherlock answered. He turned and called loudly towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, "Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson and Miss. Nikolsen _will_ take the room upstairs."

"Says who?"

Sherlock looked towards the door, "Says the man at the door."

John turned his head towards the door just as someone knocked on it three times. He turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock smiled. John stared at him for a moment, then walked along the hall to answer the door. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and blew out a breath. John opened the door and found Angelo standing outside, "Sherlock texted me," he smiled, holding up John's walking cane, "He said you forgot this."

John stared at the cane in surprised, then took it, "Ah," he turned and looked down the hall to Sherlock, who grinned at him, John turned back to Angelo, "Er, thank you. Thank you."

As he came back in and closed the door, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and hurried over to us. She sounded upset and tearful, "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Mrs Hudson?" He asked.

"Upstairs."

Sherlock turned and hurried up the stairs. John and I followed him. Sherlock opened the living room door and went inside, where I saw Lestrade sitting casually in the armchair facing the door. Other police officers were going through Sherlock's possessions. Sherlock stormed over to Lestrade, "What are you doing?"

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock spat.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't _break_ into your flat," Lestrade replied.

"Well, what do you call this then?"

Lestrade looked around at the officers searching the flat, then replied innocently, "It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?! _This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

Sherlock turned and walked closer to John, biting his lip nervously, "John ..." _So this guy is/was a junkie! Didn't think he'd be _that _stupid. Then again, _another voice in my mind cut in, _you were stupid enough. Shut up._

John said to Lestrade, "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational,"

"John, you probably want to shut up _now,_" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, but come on ..."

He looked into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment then John came to the realisation, "No."

"What?" Sherlock questioned

_"You_?" he asked, shocked.

"Shut up!" Sherlock angrily spat, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, _Anderson_'s my sniffer dog," he said, nodding towards the kitchen.

"What, An..." he said as the closed doors to the kitchen slid open and revealed several more idio- I mean, officers in there searching through the room. Anderson turned towards the living room and raised his hand in sarcastic greeting. _Arse, "_Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson said, with a lot of venom in his voice.

Sherlock turned away biting his lip angrily, "They _all_ did," Lestrade said, "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

Donovan called out from the kitchen, she held a small glass jar with some white round objects in it_. Eyes, "_Are these _human_ eyes?"

"Put those back!" Sherlock called back.

"They were in the microwave!" Donovan exclaimed, clearly disgusted.

"It's an experiment," he said, exasperated.

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade stood up and turned to Sherlock, "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock was pacing angrily, "This is childish.

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock stopped and glared at Lestrade, "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," he said, in a more serious tone.

"I am clean!" he exclaimed loudly to the entire flat.

"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't even smoke," He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt and pulled it up to show the nicotine patch on his lower arm.

"Neither do I," Lestrade said, pulling up the right sleeve of his own shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away and they both pulled their sleeves back down again, "So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock frowned, "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind _that_. We found the case," He pointed to the suitcase in the living room, "According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

Sherlock looked at him disparagingly, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research," he turned back to Lestrade, "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead."

"Excellent!" John looked startled at this, but I just kept listening, "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be," Sherlock said, speaking to Lestrade.

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

John grimaced sadly and turned away. I frowned. I had a little sister that was stillborn. I was only seven years old when it happened. I really didn't understand what was going on. Everyone just was crying and telling my mum, my dad, my brother, Elliot, who was only 2 years old, and I they were sorry. Didn't truly realise what happened until when I was eight . We had a name and a room picked out for her and every thing. Sherlock just looked confused, "No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? _Why?"_

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?!" Anderson asked, shocked, "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock turned to Anderson with an exasperated look on his face. "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt," he began to pace back and forth across the room again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock stopped and turned to us, "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?" John stares at him. I had a frown on my face. 27 years since my would-be sister died and I still get miserable thinking about it. Sherlock hesitated as he realised that everyone in the flat had stopped what they're doing and fell silent. He glanced around the room and then looked awkwardly at John and I, "Not good?"

John glanced around at the others before he turned back to Sherlock, "_Bit_ not good, yeah."

"Don't think you can get anymore _not good,"_ I said.

Sherlock shook it off and stepped closer to us, "Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live,'" John supplied while I said, "Please don't kill me, I'll do anything," Unoriginal, yes, but I had had a lot of nightmares of me about to be killed and thay was the gist of what I usually said.

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock said, exasperated.

"I don't _have_ to."

I saw Sherlock recognising the look of pain in John's face. He paused momentarily and blinked a couple of times, shifting his feet apologetically before he continuied, "Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she _was_ clever," he started to pace again, "She's trying to _tell_ us something."

Mrs Hudson came to the door of the living room, "Isn't the doorbell working? Your and Harper's taxi's here, Sherlock."

"We didn't order a taxi. Go away," He continued pacing.

Mrs. Hudson looked around the room, "Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson." I informed her.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers," she said anxiously. '_Herbal soothers' my arse._

Sherlock stopped and suddenly shouted out, "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off," I giggled childishly

"What? My _face_ is?!" said idiot asked in shock.

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back," Lestrade ordered.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson The Idiot said, exasperated.

"Your _back_, now, please!"

Sherlock said to himself, "Come on, think. Quick!"

"What about your taxi?"

Sherlock turned to her and shouted furiously, "MRS HUDSON!" Said woman turned and hurried away down the stairs. Sherlock stopped and looked around, probably realising something, "Oh," Sherlock smiled in delight, "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" he walked across the room and turn back to everyone else, "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead," _Definitely want someone to say that at my funeral, "_Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him," he started pacing again, "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped and stare at Lestrade, "Wha...? What do you mean, how?" Lestrade just shrugged, "Rachel!"

A smile appeared on my face as I realised what he was talking about, "Oh my god. Rachel! Jennifer Wilson was _that_ clever."

Sherlock gave me a smile then looked at everyone else triumphantly. They all gave him blank looks, "Don't you see? _Rachel!" _Everyone still had blank looks. Sherlock laughed in disbelief of their stupidity "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing. Even Harper got it and she isn't even an officer!"

"Definitely taking that as a compliment," I said, even if was just to prove a point of the Yard's stupidity.

Sherlock continued more sternly "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" _Password._

Sherlock said, "John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

John looked at the label on the suitcase and read out the address, "Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

Sherlock had sat down at the dining table and was looking at his computer, "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled," he pulled up Mephone's website and typed the email address into the 'User name' box, "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address ..." he began to type into the 'Password' box.

"and all together now," I added in, "the password is?" I said, walking over to behind Sherlock.

John walked over to behind Sherlock, "Rachel."

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson asked.

_Idiot _"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade pointed out.

"We know he didn't," John said.

Sherlock looked at the screen impatiently, "Come on, come on. Quickly!"

Mrs Hudson trotted up the stairs and came to the door again, "Sherlock, Harper, dear. This taxi driver ..."

Sherlock went to his feet and walked over towards Mrs. Hudson, "Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" John sat down on the chair that Sherlock vacated and watched a clock spinning round on the website as it claimed that the phone would be located in under three minutes. Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter," Mrs. Hudson looked around anxiously as a man walked slowly up the stairs behind her, "We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade pointed out

"It's a start!" he exclaimed.

On the computer, a map had appeared and was zooming in on the location of the phone, "Sherlock ..." John said.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had," Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"Sherlock ..." I said, my voice starting to shake. _Damn it! Stop shaking. There is a murderer in the room, you're I'm allowed to be as nervous as I want._

Sherlock hurried across the room to look over John's shoulder, "What is it? Quickly, where?"

"It's here." John pointed out.

"It's in two two one Baker Street." I finished.

Sherlock straightened up, "How can it be here? _How_?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade supplied

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me_? I didn't notice?" Sherlock said. It was very improbable that neither Sherlock nor I did not noticed that eye-popping shade of pink.

John said to Lestrade, "Anyway, we texted him and he called back."

Lestrade turned to call out to the rest of the officers, "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim ..."

Behind Mrs Hudson, the man I saw before had reached the top of the stairs. He was wearing a badge in a leather holder on a cord around his neck. The badge is for a licenced London cab driver. On the landing, the taxi driver took a pink smartphone from his pocket and pressed the screen to send a text. A moment later, Sherlock's own phone trilled a text alert. He took his phone from his jacket pocket. He looked at the message that was sent. All of a sudden, my phone buzzed and I took it out of my pocket, it said COME WITH ME. _This is it, the murderer._ As Sherlock turned his head towards the door, the taxi driver turned around and calmly headed off down the stairs. Sherlock gave me a look I could tell that said, _You got it too?_ I nodded.

"Sherlock, Harper, you okay?"

Sherlock said as he watched the man go What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine."

"Harper? You ok?"

"What? Oh yeah, I'm fine. Don't think I could be less fine," What? I'm a bad liar when I'm nervous.

"So, how can the phone be here?" John asked.

Sherlock said, still watching the cabbie, "Dunno."

John got up and took his phone out of his pocket, "I'll try it again."

"Good idea," he said as we both headed towards the door.

"Where are _you both_ going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment," Sherlock said.

"Won't be long," I finished.

John frowned as we left the room and called after us, "You sure you're all right?"

We both hurried down the stairs, "We're fine," Sherlock called out.

* * *

"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes and 'arper Nikolsen," The cabbie said as we went out.

Sherlock stepped out as I closed the door, "We didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street," I remembered the American man sitting in the back of the cab. I remembered seeing the cabbie looking over his shoulder.

"It was _you_, not your passenger."

"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

Sherlock took a few more steps forward and looked up towards the windows of 221b, "Is this a confession?"

"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if either of you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"'Cause either you're not gonna do that."

"Are we not?" I asked.

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes, Ms. Nikolsen, I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing," He leaned forward, "I will never tell you what I said."

We both stared at him, after a moment, the cabbie straightened up and started to walk around the front of the cab, "No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result."

"Yes they do indeed call that a result." I responded.

The cabbie stopped and turned back towards us, "An' you both won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

He turned again and continued around to the driver's door. As he got in, he sat down and closed the door, he settled into his seat and ignored Sherlock and I. Sherlock bit his lip and walked closer to the cab as I followed. Sherlock looked up again at the flat windows, then he bended and looked into the open side window of the cab, "If I _wanted_ to understand, what would we do?"

The cabbie said, "Let me take you for a ride. Both of you, not telling if only one goes"

"So you can kill the both of us too?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes, Ms. Nikolsen. I'm gonna talk to yer ... and then you're gonna kill yourself," The cabbie turned to face the front again. Sherlock straightened up, his eyes lost in thought as he considered the situation.

Sherlock looked at me, "Do you want to? You could die"

"Course I'm coming. I'm as interested as you are in finding out how those people died. Sherlock gave me a dangerous smile. The cabbie calmly sat gazing out of the front window, then smiled in satisfaction as the rear door opened. The cab dipped as Sherlock and I went in and then the door slammed shut. The cabbie started the engine._  
_

* * *

"How did you find us?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

"What about me? Why me?"

"I was only warned about you today Miss Nikolsen! I've seen some of the stuff yer in too. You're good. 'arper Nikolsen! Almost famous actress!"

"Who warned you about us?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you. Only just noticed you a few days ago, Ms. Nikolsen, tellin' me about how you're smart enough to rival Mr. 'olmes 'imself!"

"Who?" Sherlock asked. Sherlock leaned forward. _Divorced, loves kids but can't see them, dead man walking, informed three years ago, "_Who would notice _me_?" Sherlock asked.

"I get him but why me? Hardly anyone knows I exist."

The cabbie met Sherlock's eyes in the rearview mirror "You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes, Ms. Nikolsen"

"I'm really not," Sherlock and I said at the same time. We both looked at each other, blinking.

"You've both got yourself a fan."

"Tell us more," Sherlock demanded nonchalantly.

"That's all you're gonna know ..." The cabbie paused, "... in _this_ lifetime."

* * *

**Sorry about the wait between 3 and 4 but i got writer's block and self esteem issues about my writing. Still waiting the that first review! *Laughs nervously* Next chapter is the end of ASIP. Then we get an interlude, The Blind Banker (Blegh), another interlude, then finally, The Great Game. Not sure whether or not I should keep S1 and S2 in the same story or make them different. I'm leaning on keep them the same story but you tell me! Thanks to those who favorited and followed. See you with another chapter soon!**


	6. We Can't Giggle at a Crime Scene!

**So the final chapter of ASIP! This is probably my favorite part of the episode, so let's get on with the chapter! Also I don't own Sherlock blah blah blah**

* * *

After a while, we finally stopped at the front of two buildings. The cabbie got out and opened the passenger door and looked in at us.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London," the cabbie said, "You know _exactly_ where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out," _Cause most cabbies aren't murderous psychopaths._

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" The cabbie raised a pistol and pointed it at us. _Boring. Couldn't think of anything else? Threats? No of course. Has to be a gun. Couldn't even have made it a real one. _I saw Sherlock roll his eyes, "Oh, dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better," the cabbie said.

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yup, impossible," I reaffirmed.

"I don't. It's much better than that," the cabbie lowered the gun, "Don't need this with either of you, 'cause you both'll follow me," the cabbie confidently walked away.

"Still sure about this?" Sherlock asked me.

"Course I'm sure"

* * *

When we entered the college, the cabbie opened the door of a room and stood aside as we went in. The cabbie released the door and turned on the light. It was a large classroom with long fixed wooden benches and plastic chairs. I look around, "Well, what do you think?" the cabbie asked, Sherlock shrugged while I just raised and eyebrow to say, _'What do I think about what?', "_It's up to you. You two're the ones who's gonna die 'ere.

Sherlock turned around, "No, we're not."

"That's what they all say," the cabbie gestured to the benches, "Shall we talk?" The cabbie pulled out of the chairs and sits down. Sherlock took a chair from the bench in front. I took a chair and sat next to him.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you," Sherlock said.

"You call that a risk? Nah," the cabbie reached into the left pocket of his cardigan, "_This_ is a risk," he took out a small glass bottle with two capsules inside, "Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this," The cabbie reached into his right pocket and took out another bottle that was identical to the first containing two capsules that were identical to the first and put it on the table next to the first bottle, "Either of you weren't expecting that, were yer?" The cabbie leaned forward, "Ooh, you both're going to love this."

"Love what?"

The cabbie leaned back again, "Sherlock 'olmes and 'arper Nikolsen. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it. He's a fan of you too 'arper. Just recently found out about your website"

"Our _fan_?" I asked.

"You are brilliant. Both of you. Proper geniuses. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is _proper_ thinking. Your blog too, 'arper, shows a lot of you genius. Don't even know if you meant it to happen. Between you two and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" The cabbie looked down angrily, "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just _think_?"

The cabbie looked up again. Sherlock looked back at him for a long moment, then his face lit up with a realisation, "Oh, _I_ see," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "So you're a proper genius _too_."

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know," he threatened.

_"_Okay so we've got two bottle with capsules. How does this work?" I asked.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die," he grinned, "You know what else?"

"What?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

"You both 'ave to choose the same bottle."

"Both bottles are of course identical," Sherlock observed

"In every way," the cabbie replied.

"And you know which is which," I stated for confirmation"

"Course _I_ know."

"But we don't." Sherlock and I said at the same time.

The cabbie looked amused, probably at the synchronised speaking, "Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew. You both're the ones who choose."

"Why should we? we've got nothing to go on. What's in it for us?"

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine," I started to grin. This seems to be getting interesting. I saw Sherlock grinning as well, "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't," I looked down at the bottles. Trying to take in every detail. Sherlock did the same, "Didn't expect _that_, did you, Mr. 'olmes an' Ms. Nikolsen?" Ok pros and cons: Pros: Bad guy dies, I live. Cons: Bad guy lives, I die.

"This is what you did to the rest of them," Sherlock said.

"They had a choice," I finished.

"And now I'm givin' _you two _one," Sherlock and I looked up at him, "You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a _game,_" Sherlock said

"It's _chance,_" I scoffed. I was never that good with chance. Never in my entire life. Sometimes I felt it ran in my family.

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, Ms. Nikolsen, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one or two survivors. And this ... _this_ ... is the move," he slid the left-hand bottle across the table, "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

* * *

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes and Ms. Nikolsen? Ready to play?" The cabbie said.

"Play _what_? It's a fifty-fifty chance," Sherlock said.

"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' _me_. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a _triple_-bluff?"

"Still just chance," I said in a sing-songy voice.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance."

"Luck."

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think," I rolled my eyes, "I know 'ow people think _I_ think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead," I was exasperated by this point, "Everyone's so stupid – even you two. Or maybe God just loves me."

Sherlock straightened up and folded his hands, "Either way, you're _wasted_ as a cabbie."

* * *

"What I'm wondering is, why would someone risk their life to kill strangers? One time is one thing, but _four times?_ Why?"

The cabbie nodded down to the bottles, "Time to play."

Sherlock unfolded his hands, "Oh, we _are_ playing. This is _our_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you."

Now it was my turn, "Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you."

_"_But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture," Sherlock stated.

"If she'd died, she'd still be there. Sentiment," I deduced.

S"The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them."

The cabbie's gaze slid away from us, "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts."

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock pointed his index finger at the cabbie, "Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead.

"And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What the _hell _is _that_ all about?" I asked.

Sherlock's eye's widened, "Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?"

The cabbie said flatly, "Told me what?"

"That you're a dead man walking," Sherlock said.

"So are you," the cabbie pointed out.

"You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

The cabbie smiled, "Aneurism," he smiled and pointed to his head, "Right in 'ere," I saw Sherlock smiling in satisfaction, "Any breath could be my last.

"And because you're dying, you've just forced four people to take their own lives," I frowned.

"I've _outlived_ four people. That's the most fun you can _'ave_ on an aneurism."

"No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Love is a much more vicious motivator," I stated.

"Somehow this is about your children," Sherlock concluded.

The cabbie looked away and sighed, "Ohh," he looked back at us, "You two _are_ good, ain't you?"

"But _how_?" Sherlock asked.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Well, driving cabs probably pays better then murdering people and it's good for moral principals," I reminded him.

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me."

The cabbie leaned forward, "I 'ave a sponsor."

"You have a what?" Sherlock asked.

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

Sherlock frowned, "Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

The cabbie instantly responded, "Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes or 'arper Nikolsen? You two're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you two, except you're just a man and a woman ... and they're so much more than that._  
_

"What d'you mean, _more_ than a man? An organisation? What?" Sherlock asked.

"There's a name no-one says," _Like Voldemort?_ "an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter, time to choose."  
_  
_

* * *

"What if we don't choose either?" Sherlock questioned

"We _could_ just walk out of here," I pointed out

The cabbie sighed and lifted up the (fake) pistol and pointed it at Sherlock, "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you two in the head," Sherlock and I smiled calmly. He obviously knew it was a fake too. "Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option,"

"We'll have the gun, please."

"Are you sure?" The cabbie asked.

"Oh I think we are definitely sure. The gun," I grinned confidently.

"You don't wanna phone a friend?"

"The gun," Sherlock demanded. The cabbie squeezed the trigger. A flame bursted out at the end of it. Sherlock and I smiled smugly, "I know a real gun when I see one."

"Wasn't that hard to tell it was a fake," I said, still grinning.

The cabbie released the trigger to make the flame go out, "None of the others did.

"Clearly. Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case," Sherlock and I stood up and walked towards the door. The cabbie put the gun onto the desk and turned in his seat.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out ..." we stopped at the door and half-turned towards him, "... which one's the good bottle?" _One closest to you. Obvious._

"Of course," Sherlock stated.

"Obvious," I said

"Well, which one, then?" The cabbie questioned. Sherlock opened the door a little bit, "Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Sherlock closed the door, "Come on. Play the game," we walked back towards him. When we got to the table Sherlock reached out and grabbed the bottle closest to the cabbie. The cabbie looked at the other bottle with interest, "Oh. Interesting," he picked up the bottle as Sherlock examined the bottle.

* * *

The cabbie opened his bottle and tipped one of the capsules out into his hand. He held it up, "So what d'you think?" he looked up at us, "Shall we?"

* * *

"_Really_, what do you think?" he stood up and faced us, "Can you two beat me?"

* * *

"Are you both clever enough to bet your life?" The cabbie goaded.

* * *

"I bet you two get bored, don't you? I _know_ you do. A man like you and a woman like you ..." Sherlock undid the lid of the bottle, ".. so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" I held out my hand for Sherlock to tip the bottle into it. I examined the bottle, "Still the addict. But this ... _this_ is what you two're really addicted to, innit?You'd do anything ... anything at all ... the both of you," he paused, "... to stop being bored," Sherlock and I slowly raised the pills to our mouths. The cabbie did the same, "You're not bored now, are you?" The pill was closer to my mouth, "Innit good?"

All of a sudden, I heard a gunshot and a bullet went through the cabbie's chest, going through his body and smashed into the door. As the cabbie fell to the floor, the pill in my hand slipped through my fingers in surprise. Sherlock hurried to the window, bending down to stare through the bullet whole. I looked across to the building, but no one was there. I heard the cabbie breathing heavily coughing. I saw Sherlock turning, looking around the room and snatching one of the pills on the desk. He knelt down and brandished it at the cabbie, where there was already a large pool of blood. I rushed over to both men, "Was I right?" The cabbie turned his head away, "I was, wasn't I? Did we get it right?" The cabbie didn't reply. Sherlock hurled the pill across the room and stood up, "Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about us – our 'fan'. I want a name."

"No," the cabbie weakly replied.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name," the cabbie shook his head. Sherlock lifted his foot and put it onto the cabbie's shoulder. The cabbie made a horrid noise from the pain, "A _name," _the cabbie cried out in pain, "_Now," _The cabbie only whined in pain. I couldn't see Sherlock's face at the time, but I was pretty sure it would be manic. Sherlock leaned his weight onto his foot, cue more whimpering, "The _NAME!"_

_"MORIARTY!"_ The cabbie shouted before his eyes closed and his head rolled to the side. Sherlock stepped back he turned his head to me. He had a surprised look on his face, like he forgot I was there.

"Sorry?" he apologised, but I could tell he really didn't mean it.

"Fine," I said.

He mouthed the word 'Moriarty' to me but all I could respond with was a mouthing of the word 'Dunno'.

* * *

After the police and ambulance got there, Sherlock and I were sitting on the back steps of an ambulance as a paramedic put orange blankets around our shoulders. Soon after that, Lestrade walked over, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Getting rather annoying," I complained.

"Yeah, it's for shock."

I groaned, "We're not _in_ shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade grinned

Sherlock rolled his eyes,"So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but ..." Lestrade shrugged "... got nothing to go on.

Sherlock looked at him pointedly, "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Okay, gimme."

Sherlock and I stood up, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon –" Sherlock began.

"that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman," I added on

"A fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..." I saw Sherlock turn his head to look around the area. I looked around and I saw John standing behind the police tape.

"... and nerves of steel ..." I trailed off. I saw John look at us innocently and turned his head away. _Shooter = John Watson. _Sherlock seemed to come to the conclusion as well

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore us," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er," Sherlock trailed off.

"Shock talking!" I supplied

"Y-yes the shock talking," we started to walk towards John

"Where're you two going?"

"We just need to talk about the-the rent," Sherlock lied.

"But I've still got questions for you," Lestrade protested.

Sherlock turned back, irritated, "Oh, what _now_? We're in shock! Look, we've got blankets and everything!" he brandished the sides of the blanket.

"Sherlock!"

_"And_ I-

I elbowed him, "We"

Sherlock sighed an irritated sigh, "'_We' _just caught you a serial killer ... more or less."

"Okay," Lestrade agreed, "We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock and I walked away. We both tossed our 'Shock Blankets' into the window of a police car. We approach John behind the police tape, "Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, "Good shot."

John tried (And utterly failed) to look innocent, "Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, of course, _you'd_ know." I smirked.

John tried not to let his expression give him away (and still failed), "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," Sherlock said.

John cleared his throat and looked around nervously, "You all right?" I asked, concerned.

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man," Sherlock reminded him

"Yes, I ..." he trailed off, "That's true, innit?" he smiled, "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man.

Sherlock and I nodded in agreement, "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." John said.  
_(\_  
I laughed and Sherlock chuckled, "That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

"My American Aunt who's never even been to London could've taken a better route," I laughed, my smile growing wider.

John giggled even more, "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame us," Sherlock reminded him.

"Keep your voice down!" John said as we walked past Donovan, "Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock apologised.

"Won't happen again," I lied.

As we walked away from Donovan, John cleared his throat, "You two were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

We turned back to him, "Course we weren't. Biding our time," Sherlock lied.

"Knew you'd turn up," I popped the 'p'.

"No you didn't. It's how you two get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Now why John, would we be stupid enough to do that?"

"Because you two're idiots."

I smiled, "Dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving," John and I said.

We started walking again, "End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

A little bit ahead, a car pulled up and Umbrella Man got out of the car, "Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about,"

Sherlock looked at Umbrella Man, "I know _exactly_ who that is."

Sherlock walked closer to the man and I followed slowly, "So, another case cracked," Umbrella Man started, "How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock said angrily.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," Umbrella Man responded.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'." He accused.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" Umbrella Man questioned.

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy." _Mummy? Oh these two are brothers! This is definitely better then him being a James Bond villain._

_"I_ upset her? Me?" Umbrella Man glowered at him, "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft," Mycroft? I think I like Umbrella Man better.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asked. _Isn't it obvious?_

"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft,"

"I prefer Umbrella Man," I smirked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes while Sherlock snickered, "You do love that umbrella, don't you? Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact."

"He's your _brother_?!" John asked.

"Of _course_ he's my brother."

"So he's not ..." John trailed off.

"Not what?" Sherlock questioned.

John shrugged, "I dunno – criminal mastermind?"

"He does remind me of a James Bond villain. All he needed was the fluffy cat," I piped up.

"Close enough."

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Mycroft sighed, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic," Sherlock and I walked away.

"Does being a drama queen run in the family?" I asked.

"What?"

"You know, Mycroft kidnapping John and I, you getting John to go all across London for a text," I accused.

"I'm not a drama queen," he muttered. I just chuckled. Soon, John caught up to us.

"So: dim sum," he said

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't," John accused.

I shrugged, "Most of the time"

"You did get shot though," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan," I clarified, "There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so," Sherlock exclaimed.

"No you didn't," John said.

"Left," I guessed.

"Lucky guess," John bit back jokingly.

"I never guess," I said to him.

John started laughing, "Yes you do," He looked across to Sherlock and I, who were smiling, "What are you two so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"We've absolutely _no_ idea," Sherlock said cheerfully.

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**I will see you again for the interlude, which I still have to think of without being 100% OOC. See you all LATERS!**


	7. Interlude: Life in 221b

**So this is basically about the first few months at 221b. Don't own it**

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I had been living at 221B for a couple months (too lazy to be exact) and things weren't that bad. We had the occasional case (which weren't boring. That means NO AFFAIRS. THE ANSWER IS YES) and body parts in the fridge. I didn't really mind this because, occasionally, I was the one that put them there (Don't ask where I got them, just, don't). There was of course, a couple problems.

"I get to use the kitchen today!" I yelled at Sherlock, who was looking through his microscope, "We made a schedule. You get it Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursday, and Saturdays. I get it Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. And today is, I'm pretty sure, is a Monday!"

"It's for a case!" He yelled exasperatedly.

"I don't bloody care!" Then there was the opening of a door, "John!" I yelled, "Tell Sherlock to stop being a git and let me use the kitchen," I complained.

John walked into the kitchen, "Sherlock, it's Harper's turn" John was the one who made the schedule in the first place, it made the verbal fights less common.

"But John," Sherlock complained, "It's for a case!"

And this would go on until either I gave up, or Sherlock gave in, which would take along time, because Sherlock and I are extremely stubborn. There was also a lot of issues with how loud I would play the telly and the stupidity of the programs I watched. Some of Sherlocks commentary on the things I watched:

Disney: "It's for children!"

Doctor Who: "Doesn't even use an once of logic!"

Harry Potter: "Predictable"

Crime Shows: "The police are too smart"

Just to name a few. I would laugh, telling him his commentary won't stop me from watching it.

I had also tried dating for a bit, but didn't work out. If I didn't scare them away, Sherlock definitely did. He deduced this one woman who I brought back to 221b down to how she broke up with her last girlfriend! Can't forget the time he deduced the type of underwear this one bloke was wearing. I should have been mad at him but I just laughed as they stormed off, which would explain why I never got any calls back.

"Don't understand why you do it," he said to me one day, "Ordinary people are dull and stupid."

"Well there are some non-stupid, non-dull ordinary people."

"The day that happens will be the day Mycroft actually has friends," Sherlock muttered.

"'Friends' is a strong,... unlikely word," I said, earning a chuckle from Sherlock.

So as you can tell, me and Sherlock had a not bad relationship, kinda strange, yeah, but Sherlock was a kinda strange person. John was a pretty nice bloke. We rarely ever fought. i think the reason Sherlock and I fought so much was sort of like magnets. Negative and Negative repel but Negative and Positive attract. That's the best way I could explain it. The only time John and I ever fought (Sherlock was included in this as well) was when there was body parts in the fridge. First he would blame Sherlock then, if the parts didn't belong to him, he would yell at me, to which I replied,

"It's not near anything important," I would say, gesturing how the parts were far enough away from any sort of junk food, cake, pies, cake pies etc. John would just groan and say,

"You are impossible," and I would just respond my smirking and walking away.

That was basically my day, experimenting, watching telly, and maybe (if there was a show) going off to rehearsals for a show. That was the way I made rent. I was actually an extra in Doctor Who once. I would also just lock myself in my room for a long time, blogging, writing Doctor Who fanfiction, and more blogging. Neither John nor Sherlock actually know I write it.

It's also fun to watch Sherlock attempt to guess my password. He would eventually get frustrated and use John's laptop. I decided to hide my password in plain sight. The best part is, I'm never gonna tell him that my password was actually:

pSsWrd

Password without the vowels! John's was too easy to guess, it was obviously the name of his latest girlfriend. Reading his emails to his girlfriends were even more hilarious than Sherlock attempt to guess my password.

Of course, there was the violin-at-two-in-the-morning, but I didn't mind it. I rarely fell asleep by then and I'm a heavy sleeper, so it's fine. I would also retaliate when it was getting really annoying by playing the guitar extremely loud (And poor John was stuck in the middle of it all).

So all in all, I would say, life in 221b was good. I do miss it indeed.

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**Hope that wasn't too OOC *cringes*. Now, we just have to get over TBB. Wish me luck readers.**


End file.
